


Lodestar

by bladeCleaner



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, LGBTQ Female Character of Color, Multi, POV Character of Color, POV Multiple, Queerplatonic Relationships, Slow Burn, Some Canon Retelling, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-14 18:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5753656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bladeCleaner/pseuds/bladeCleaner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Learning how to make a home, and how to stay. Fenris, Hawke and Isabela, over the course of almost ten years. </p><p>Or: Hawke learns to like Fenris, while making very bad romantic decisions in the meantime, and Isabela learns that some things aren't easy. POV-switching, Isabela POV starts around Ch 6 (summary will update as plot goes along)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue, Pt. 1: Fenris

**Author's Note:**

> ALLLLLLLLLLLLLRIGHT. Okay. I've uploaded very different versions of this story TWICE. But this one will stick. This time. I hope.
> 
> The summary is pretty barebones, but even though I have it all planned out I don't want to spoil it. For those who came here to read about Isabela and Hawke, I PROMISE you, this fic has a lot of that, we're just starting off with Fenris right now. (Yes, there is also a lot of Fenhawke.) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and constructive critique is welcome, as well as comments and kudos.

_Your first memory: the searing pain and the heat, the light, the incessant singing. Pain stretched to the point where you were screaming even as you did your best not to flinch (later they told you you had cried, later Hadriana was laughing as she spat it at you, and it would become a raw wound, a thing she would use to wield against you, hurt you, her words all laced with intention) and all you could see was blue, endless blue, until finally black replaced it all._

_\--_

_The first time he had you presented in public, it was to a sea of faces. You had been forced to walk out naked in the midst of a great hall, surrounded by half of the powerful mages in Tevinter. The fear subsumed you in an instant and all you could do was wait._

_Then he had come out – he was in his best robes, silk and embroidered by the finest slaves money could buy – and he had waited until the buzz had died down. (You had heard laughter more than once while waiting.)_

_His words in that great hall of the Circle of Minrathous would forever mark you, claim you – there he named you, when before he would only call you “slave”._

_“I have transformed a crude elf into a work of art. Behold, Fenris, my wolf.”_

_Then, you were only happy because he was so proud of what he had made – and he had named you. It meant that he would keep you._

_You were to be his bodyguard and eventually – you would follow him to Seheron._

–

The harbor's salt feels like it is deliquescing into his skin.

He turns his gaze to his master's face, waiting for his orders. So far, the Qunari have not claimed the docks. Yet.

His master fishes out a bag of coins and tosses it to him. He catches it—it's light and Fenris stares at it. Does he wish him to buy something? Does he need it to be delivered? He directs his gaze, as always, to the ground, waiting for instruction. There are sounds of explosions in the distance; Seheron may collapse like wooden buildings under the licking of fire, at this rate. His fist tightens around the bag unconsciously. He must get his master out of here.

"This is a reward, little wolf," Danarius says. "You did well. Now, see that you - "

"Everyone on the bloody ship!" Somebody roars above them, presumably the captain. His voice nearly drowns out everything else.

Danarius doesn't flinch; there's only a flicker of irritation replaced by his stock smile. He begins to move and Fenris immediately follows. As Danarius walks onto the gangplank, however, Fenris is stopped by a pair of sailors standing at either side of him. Danarius doesn't notice until he's on the ship itself.

The sailors murmur something to Fenris. His eyes open wide, his entire body thrums, the information freezing any other instinct he might have had—to protest, to fight, to beg.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Danarius starts to cry out, and he makes as if to step off, but the captain has an indecipherable grin on his face when he addresses Danarius from the wheel with a shout, "I'm not taking any damn slaves on this ship, Magister. Sorry. We're out of room and the last ship leaving so I wouldn't go overboard about now, if I was you. If you'd like to become _saarebas_ for the horned bastards, though, be my guest!"

The captain turns back to look at Fenris. It's only for a fleeting second—but enough so that Fenris can memorize his face, silver hair and a wicked scar crossing his jawline, a broken nose and a lot of stubble. There's a glint in his eye, but one of warning; _run, now._

The captain (his name already forgotten and Fenris suddenly regrets not asking) gives him one jaunty nod.

Then Fenris looks at his master's face. His expression is twisted into something crooked and ugly, equal parts frustration and pure helplessness, and Fenris feels something expand in his chest - his lungs filling with it, mysterious and indescribable. He feels like he is on the edge of a precipice.

He has the sudden urge to laugh and cry all at once; paralyzed by terror and realization. I will be punished for this.

Then the ropes loosen, the brig hands begin to run across the gangplank and haul it up. Danarius' expression shutters into careful neutrality, and behind him some warriors are smirking openly. Fenris watches it all, just managing not to cry out in shock. In Minrathous, so blatantly going against a respected mage, no, a Magister...

But behind him he can already hear shouts across the harbor.

" _EBOST BASRA! Itwa-ost, katara!_ "

He is one of the few people left on the harbor, for everyone behind him has begun to scatter and run, their weapons glinting in the sunlight. In the distance he can hear screaming.

His bodyguard's armor and sword, he knows, will not be enough for an entire Qunari invasion. His head still reeling, he begins to scramble backwards into the city, his eyes still on the ship until he can see it no longer. Then he turns on his heel and sprints, nerves ablaze.

He knows the city's exits, only through luck and careful attention. There are a million voices screaming that he should remain, feet rooted to the harbor, until his master comes for him. But there is a larger part of him straining for survival, a part of him that is still more warrior than slave; desperate to live.

All that matters now is forward, going, running. _Out._

—

He stumbles into the forest, bloody, bruised, hungry and exhausted. The foliage is mysteriously white- and he registers for a moment that his surroundings seem to be filling with fog, before he collapses onto his knees and falls face first into the awaiting grass.

—

His fever dreams are mixed, varied and disorienting; a palette of wild colors, then pastels, then faded black and white, ever changing, a kaleidoscope of indecipherable echoes. At some point he dreams of a woman, laughing, old and wrinkled with a wolf by her side. She tugs on the chains - fully formed in one moment - around his neck.

"Marked by our mistakes, old friend," she says to the wolf beside her. "We can never let ourselves forget."

The wolf opens its jaws and -

Water rushes in, clear diamond liquid streaming around his ankles. The coolness of the ocean. There is salt on his tongue and the sky unfurls above him in the way that dreams do, blue and clear. There are storm clouds gathering if he squints hard enough. He hears someone swear and the clinking of jewelry.

He thinks he hears Qunlat again before he drifts off.

Another dream - a woman, again, but this time different. Young. Short hair. Skin the color of sand. Her back turned to him. She is not laughing. There are daggers at her sides, all completely layered in blood. He strains to speak, but his mouth is stitched together.

When he awakes, it is to chalky white pale faces, curiosity peeking through the paint. The front-most breaks a grin at his stirring. "Someone has rejoined us. How do you feel, Brother?”

—

The first twelve hours, they try to coax words out of him. He chokes out his name and nothing else.

His insides feel ablated; they have healed his wounds well, but he feels like a dull knife. These people scare him and he nearly lashes out before he realizes they have tended to his wounds, given him food and water. Then he is even more uncertain.

He is no longer with his master. He is - he is unsure how to behave. These people are strange, their faces and skin completely painted in white; they look nothing like the Seheron common-folk. They are dressed in guerrilla armor, barely recognizable amongst the forest they're camped out in. Stripes of white and black and olive green with canisters strapped to their waists and chests. The rest of their exposed skin makes them look like ghosts. Some of them wear tunics and light armor, all with the same color pattern, but with more green.

They seem to understand him regardless of his silence. They give him water and food and shelter. At first, he tries to serve them, tries to repay them - at some point he remembers the fingers on his clothing, ready to -

They stop him. Their faces change. A few beforehand had argued to let him go, cut him loose, but they are silenced. An old woman approaches him afterwards and doesn't move to touch him, only curls her hands together and invites him to sit by the fire where they all are.

There is one who they all pay heed to, he notices. One man who stands near the center of the circle around the fire, most of his skin exposed, all of it painted that same white. He dances, and he sings, and Fenris listens as he tells of an elf named Shartan.

—

Days and weeks pass. He begins to distinguish names, watch as they treat him differently. The way they treat him is nearly alien to him. It is-it is the way free people treat each other, recognizable to him only because he has been outside of Minrathous with Danarius. It is like watching the antithesis of Tevinter life; they do not compete with each other, nor hound each other, nor judge nor command. They help each other gather food, pass out water, take care of each other's children and belongings. He helps in the little ways he can. Cooking and cleaning. He does not fight.

Every night he goes to bed alone, without having to wake up in the middle of the night with Hadriana grinning over him, or splashing him with cold water, or...

It does not stop his nightmares. But it is...better. He never knew life could be such as this. He is no longer watching himself diligently for any signs of weakness or anything that could cause displeasure. He is no longer so _afraid_.

They laugh and joke and cajole, these strange ones. They cry too, and argue and bicker and fight. But they do so without reservation.

They are wild and open. It is...remarkable. It is unthinkable for him to act in such a way even as he stretches the muscles of his newfound freedom. It still feels akin to treason for him to even cavort with them. But he cannot help but observe...and gradually adapt.

He gets used to having three meals a day. He no longer flinches internally when someone raises their hand.

He still speaks very little to the Fog Warriors, but there are two who take an interest to him and his well-being. One is named Vallin, the other is named Mien'harel. Both seem of completely neutral gender. Mien'harel, he can tell, was a slave such as he – something hidden in the eyes or the movements that is so intrinsically familiar he almost speaks to them. But he cannot. Moments come when he doesn't understand what this is; a Fade dream, a hallucination brought on by his lyrium markings, something. This cannot be reality. He is a slave; dreaming of this- this- equilibrium is madness. He should be serving Danarius right now, his master, his purpose. ( _You belong to me._ )

Vallin and Mien'harel are incomprehensible.

But they treat him well. His instincts to run back and find Danarius alone is overruled by his attachment to these people who dance by the fire and share stories; who let him drink wine instead of serving it. He has never tasted anything so sweet.

His life begins to resemble a pattern. He gets up, washes, and helps fix the meals. He sits by himself until Vallin and Mien'harel plop themselves on either side of him and eat their meals with him.

Vallin is of an average build, dark skin with shorn black hair and brown eyes. What distinguishes them are the scars littered all over their body and the badly told jokes they're so fond of. They are garrulous but kind.

Mien'harel is built like him, muscled and lean. Their hair is black and shaved almost to the point of baldness. They're quiet, half as quiet as he is, but there's mischief in their eyes. They're also deadly, the two of them a tag-team to outperform any. Mien'harel is an archer and Vallin a two-handed warrior, much like Fenris himself.

One day Mien'harel draws him out of his tent before dinnertime. Vallin is there, grinning. "C'mon, Fenris," they say, running their hand through their hair and then hands him a huge sword. It's heavier than he's used to, but he finds he can still wield a weapon after all this time. It feels - good, the heft, the weight, and he brings the blade down in the opposite direction with ease. Mien'harel gives him a smile. "It's time you rejoined the world, my friend," Vallin continues.

Eventually, after that, he chuckles at one of Vallin's jokes. They both look stunned.

"Pay up, Mien," Vallin says. "I told you."

" _Mythal'enaste_ , you're a conman and a shem," they grumble and Vallin throws back their head and laughs, throaty and rich. "You couldn't have held out a bit longer, Fenris?"

"I apologize," he replies, shocking himself. "I will try for more restraint in the future."

They all laugh, and soon the words begin trickling from his mouth. His throat aches from disuse and he croaks the first day, but afterwards he finds his voice again. He never spoke much as a slave and the influx of words surprises him. Mien'harel and Vallin act as if his talking is no big feat, but they grin at each other when they think he is not looking. He wonders for a moment what worth they find in his opinion.

One day, Mien'harel is grinning at him after a training session at dinner, their smile warm as the fire in front of them. In soft tones they tell him of their mother, who'd made amulets for luck. They show him a shiny, gaudy pendant and places it in his palm.

“You don't need luck, though, with skill like yours,” they say. “But it can't hurt.”

He stammers and shakes his head. “No,” he says, “it is your mother's- I could not- I am a mere slave, undeserving-”

“You're not a slave anymore,” they say angrily. Then, seeing his face, they relax and say, “Fenris. If you don't want it, I understand-”

“I want it,” he says, surprising himself. “I thank you for the gift.”

They smile.

(“A slave has no friends,” He remembers later that night. “A slave has nothing that does not belong to his master.”

He thinks of both of their faces – Mien'harel and Vallin. He does not know how to categorize this – their attention and their gifts. He is their burden, and at best, their mentee. He decides on that. It is simple. It makes more sense.)

They teach him things Danarius' trainers never have. The weight of the sword on his back becomes lighter over the weeks. Their evasive tactics are hard to learn but he succeeds nonetheless.

He feels as if he is truly living.

He learns more about the people beyond his two mentors. The Fog Warriors are from every part of Thedas, it seems, not just Seheron or Tevinter. He even converses with a few of the Fog Warriors - who are Tal-Vashoth - in Qunlat. They are surprised he knows any Qunlat and he credits his master. They look at him with sad eyes, full of pity, and shake their head. He does not ask why.

(Some of them have holes circling their lips like a cruel outline, shaping their mouths, forever staining the words that come through with the memory of pain. He wants to say, _I understand._ But they comprehend without words, he realizes, through the clashing of their blades. It is enough.)

They tell him of the Qun beyond what Danarius has taught him, of its teachings and its failings, as he trains with them. It's not just Vallin and Mien'harel anymore; he spars with more of these strange warriors and thinks less and less of his master everyday.

It is in the midst of one of these training sessions that Danarius arrives with his men.

—

He doesn't remember what truly happened. He does not.

What he remembers is after. After. Vallin's voice in his mental periphery even as they lie dead on the ground, joking - always joking. _I guess those training lessons really did pay off, eh? Eh? No?_

He remembers his fingers shaking. His lyrium markings are still burning a siren song in his skin, pain and power mixed together in a heady cocktail. Tears run down his cheeks silently - his vision blurry and his nerves all shot. The smell of the blood makes him nauseous - and he throws up onto the grass. To his left, Danarius is stirring and groaning.

A word from his master and he'd turned on them like an animal.

They – Mi – Va – he cannot think their names. Even as the rest of the Fog Warriors had defended themselves, they did not raise a single blade to him. They had stood there and-

Even now the pull to grovel at Danarius' feet, to come to him and beg forgiveness and lower his head is strong.

He tries to rise and feels the amulet weighing against his chest.

He picks up his sword and runs.

—

The stench of piss and shit is familiar, but the overwhelming quantity of it in the brig of this ship nearly makes him unconscious. He is sitting in the one of the checkered spots of sun with his eyes closed. He is lucky. He has a spot where he can see the sky.

The boat lurches. He is used to the feeling of nausea; he bites his lower lip and concentrates on the bit of pain, bright and distracting. He is leaving. He does not belong here, to anyone, to anything anymore.

( _my little wolf, you can never escape me no matter how far you run_ )

He is going to the Free Marches.


	2. Prologue, Pt. 2: Hawke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, this is a chapter that goes over some parts of the game already - sorry about that, folks, bear with me here. There's some stuff I shuffle here and there, add in some bits, etc. Prologues, yanno.

The first thing she notices when she steps through the door is that the room smells the same. Lavender, mixed with rained-on grass and wet dog. She hadn’t expected it to smell the same, expected the scent of – sweat, alcohol and blood, barracks muddying her nose. But it’s home, and she breathes it in deep. Bethany’s already smiling at her awestruck face, passing her by, robes rustling and hand drawn out. There’s a loud hiss as the candles on the only window set aflame. Books still in the same small shelf they have in the corner, her bed against one wall and Beth’s on the other. She notes with a pang that her space is completely untouched. It’s barren, too. Most of her personal possessions she took to the barracks, and the rest she gave to Beth.

Beth says, turning around and beaming, “Welcome home, Sis.”

“It’s good to be back, Sis.” She replies in return, but she’s being too sentimental, so she adds, “Well, it would be good if Carver wasn’t sulking next door.”

He hasn't said a word to her the whole time, presumably because he's fuming that she's coming along tomorrow on his Big Manly Ostagar Mission. But he'll come to his senses in the morning. Right?

"One day I fear he won't," she confesses to Beth as she sits back down on her bed. (Soft. Too soft. Maker.)

Beth’s eyes are fatigue-tinged with years of watching them bicker, but still warm. She’s always known Carver best. "He will. He's hard-headed, and yes, he has a chip on his shoulder, but he loves you. We're family. Now come on, tell me everything. I want to know what I’ve missed.”

“Nothing much, you know? Though, Carver DID walk in on a naked couple in the weapons vault and shrieked so loud you could have heard it in the Anderfels. That was fun.”

“ _Devyn_!” Bethany knows when she’s trying to rile her up, but it works anyway even as she’s laughing at the image. Devyn quickly dodges a comb being thrown at her, which sounds a thundering whack on the wooden walls behind her.

Carver bangs on the other side and shouts, “Keep it down, you loons!”

(Do those count as words to Devyn? Probably not.) But it’s so familiar that Beth and Devyn crack up, Carver protesting on the other side of the wall. The fresh laughter peels off and the two sisters look at each other, gasping for air slightly, grinning.

Beth says, "I missed you, you know. It feels peculiar having the room all to myself."

"What, you missed my tossing and turning? Aw, Beth."

"You are such a wretch." Beth groans, batting at Devyn's ankles with her pillow, laughing. It's something she'd always say to Devyn.

Beth tells her the latest Lothering gossip, like how Arl Bryland's daughter was caught with a serving boy the other day. Devyn, halfway through the night, slides off her bed with her pillow until she’s right by Beth’s bed. The floor is known territory, and she stretches out on it like a cat. Her head is by Beth’s feet, so that she can look at her sister at a less awkward angle; Beth catches her eye and smiles. The candles are half-melted, and she’s nearly asleep until she remembers something important.

Devyn takes out a blade (she has too many in her clothing, a consequence of growing up in the templars' shadow). She faces the hilt towards Bethany without uttering a word. Beth’s eyes wide and luminous in the midnight, understanding dawning instantly.

The shine of the edge is giving her chills, her baby sister's wide eyes reflected in the murderer's mirror. She wants to take her away from here. She wants to stay. She wants to fight, she wants to protect her brother-

Bethany swallows and takes it in her hand.

She wants to cry.

—

When Devyn finally sleeps that night, she dreams. She dreams of dragons rending the sky open to reveal a curtain of red then green; shifting and changing and roiling. She dreams of finding blood on her hands, pouring off her wrists, and the haunted eyes of a tainted man. She dreams of a woman telling her something. She is smiling gently. The man standing beside her is swaying, eyes closed; he looks dead.

"You loved him," Devyn says. The words come out strange, but true; as dream-logic is true as anything.

"He did not love me back." the woman replies. "Some stories end badly. Pray that yours does not, soldier of Theirin. Ah, but that is not your title, not really."

"I serve under our good King Cailan, and no other," Devyn replies, confused.

The woman chuckles. "Not what I meant, child. You know, do you not? What your name is? It would be a poor story, if you did not."

"Wait, what do you-"

She wakes with Carver shaking her roughly.

"Sister. It's time."

She rubs at her face, unconsciously reaching for her weapon. A habit soaked into her very bones - the first thing she wakes to - the thought of her blade. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

—

She hates to break off from her squad in this last period of peace before the battle, but she has to go find Carver. She explains this apologetically. There's silence as the three faces around the tent look like stone.

Marylyn, with her smile, Ursa with her quick wit, David with his tendency to knit whenever he can.

Her squad surprises her as they all pile in and hug her one last time. "Oof," she says, then they all pull away with incredulous expressions.

"You daft git," David says, "Of course we don't bloody mind. We've been up to each other's armpits since training began, you _have_ to be tired of our ugly mugs by now. Go find 'im."

She looks at Marylyn and Ursa, both nodding emphatically. "Really? I just-"

"He's your brother," Ursa interrupts. "I would want to say my...well wishes if my family were here, as well. Dev, don't worry about us. Go."

She finds him quickly. He's the only one still practicing on dummies in the courtyard, while everyone is in their tents or with the Chantry mothers praying.

He doesn't acknowledge her presence with anything but a nod when she approaches. Then he speaks.

"The two Grey Wardens get to light the signal, and we're down here risking our necks," Carver grumbles. "I think I'm on Teryn Loghain's side on this one."

She'd caught a glimpse of them in the camp. The girl was an elf, they'd whispered, and she'd been _Dalish_ to boot. She'd wondered whether the Maker had blessed or cursed her to bring her here out of all places. She'd been small, and looked like any other elf. Behind her had trailed a good-looking Grey Warden who'd looked not a day over twenty. Grumbling in the camp had increased when they'd arrived – King Cailan's favoritism didn't sit well with the infantry.

She shrugs and resumes watching.

Eventually, he stops, whips out a towel and slings it across his shoulders.

None of them state the obvious.

The sky behind them is igniting into a conflagration of purples and reds, as beautiful as any sunset she's seen. She drinks it in and the sweat on her skin feels like a layer of simmering oil, sizzling and abuzz.

Night is falling.

Carver looks at her grimly.

She regards him with the same gravitas even as her blood is whistling through her veins, sobered and elated all at once. Here is their battle.   


Carver snaps her out of her reverie.

"Sister," he says soberly. "Whatever happens…"

She starts. Here is Carver. Foolhardy, brave, absolutely bonkers Carver who would take on the world if he could.

"Carver, no. We are making out of this alive. You know we will."

For once, it's her getting angry and him looking at her coolly. He shakes his head. "You can't know that for sure, Sister."

"I do," she continues, "We are getting out of this alive. We're going to defend our home and our people. We are going to _live_."

He looks at her for a moment, utterly still, and nods slowly. "Yeah. Yeah. We're going to prove ourselves. That's what we wanted, right?"

"Yeah." She breathes out. "So, don't, don't talk like that. What happened to all the macho bravado you had before you came here? We fight for the King and all that?"

"Well, of course I still believe that," he huffs, then remembers his original point. "Look, I know I can be a bit of an idiot-" she laughs - " _shut it_ , but, come on. Even I know we really might...not make it today. So I just wanted to say..." he trails off looking sheepish. She glances down, contrite. Her brother's reaching out - the one in the family who's always had to _try_ so damn hard.

So she holds out her hand in the air, her arm shaped like a checkmark instead of the curve of a handshake. He's confused only a moment - then he claps his own into hers, and grips it tight.

"Yeah," she says, her own face a mirror to his determined expression. "It's been an honor to fight alongside you too, Brother."

The unspoken promise is taut in the air. The promise they always hold to each other, the pull of it irrevocable and inescapable: _If you survive and I don't, take care of Bethany._

—

"We have to get out of here," she shouts. Her mind is a jumble of slashing and shrieking and she just – she wants to lie down. She is so tired. Her arms ache and she – she shakes her head and focuses up. Her brother.

Carver's armor has nearly fallen into pieces. The battlefield of Ostagar looks like the killing floor of a slaughterhouse; almost her whole company is dead. She doesn't know what's happened to her squad, separated on the battlefield after His Majesty had been slain. She hopes they live. If tainted, she hopes...

The darkspawn, for now, have been distracted. A lot of them had headed towards the tower where the Grey Wardens had lit the signal.

But Loghain's men had never come.

Corporal Vale had left the field to find them. He hadn't come back.

Now they're standing in the pools of their fellow soldiers' blood. Carver looks like he's been crying.

They'd run into each other on the field and without thinking, almost swung their blades at each other, stopping at the last minute. Thank the Maker for small mercies.

She is holding her daggers tightly enough to make her hands ache. She feels like death. She has never been covered in so much scarlet. She smears her wrist across her nose without thinking and feels stickiness on the bridge of it, red nearly going into her eyes.

Carver hasn't heard her at all. He has this wild look in his eyes looking into the distance with his hand on the pommel of his sword. There's a faint red handprint on his cheek.

She goes up to him and points towards the approaching darkspawn. "Carver Hawke! We have to move!"

"Sister - what?"

She shakes him, her voice desperate and raw. "We have to go back to Lothering and find Mother and Bethany! Carver, you remember- _Bethany!_ Carver, _please!"_

He shudders, for a moment, with his entire body. She thinks that he has never looked this young, even with his thick frame and his sword drawn with the blood dripping off of it. His armor is as covered as hers in red. Then he nods, shivering slightly still, and they run. All that matters now is forward, going, running. _Out_.

—

They find Bethany and Mother, pick up a templar and his wife on the way and it's there that it happens.

She sees Carver with his sword, protecting Mother. She starts to run as he growls, "You soulless bastards," even as he sounds gutted, hollowed and she's so furious with him - _didn't the army teach you anything, you can't take a bloody ogre alone-_

The noises that follow haunt her till the end of her days.

He doesn't get up. He doesn't get up. She wants to shake him, punch him, cry.

_Carver, you always get up. Carver, please._

She can barely get the words out.

"Carver...saved us."

The way Mother looks at her like she's utterly disgusting makes Devyn want to die.

"How could you let him charge off like that? Your little brother! My little boy!"

_My fault._

_My responsibility._

_My fucking mistake, should have moved faster, should have done something, should have stopped him -_

The templar is mouthing something holy but she can't hear a word. She wants to kill him. She wants to kill something, kill the Maker, tear down the Golden City – then, as if on cue, the darkspawn are upon them again.

—

She's breathing hard, muscles screaming and nerves shot when the dragon - no - the _woman?_ \- emerges from the flames. Her jaw is clenched and she can hear nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat; she's just witnessed something impossible.

The woman - woman seems too small a word - the ancient one drags the darkspawn body behind her like a plaything. She lets it drop nonchalantly, every inch of her radiating pure power. Devyn tenses.

"Well, well," her voice a chilling rasp, "what have we here?"

\--

"Your king will not miss you, hmm?"

She's caustic, laughing, aching. "I imagine he'll miss his _life_ more."

The ancient one throws her head back and laughs, deep and true. "Oh, _you_ I like."

Then quick as a flash, her wrinkled face settles back into an enigmatic smile. Her fierce yellow-eyed gaze focuses entirely on Devyn. “Ah. Hurtled into the chaos, you fight. And the world will shake before you.”

—

"There must be a catch."

"There is always a catch! Life is a catch! I suggest you _catch_ it while you can."

Andraste's tits, who knew Witches of the Wild were better smartasses than her?

—

"Without an end, there can be no peace. It gets no easier. Your struggles have only just begun."

She gestures for them to follow her. Devyn finds herself moving completely on instinct, her hand moving upwards but grasping at nothing.

"Wait. _Wait._ " Her voice breaks and the sound of it pulls shame deep in her gut.

Flemeth doesn't say anything, only inclines her head slightly like she knows what she will ask.

"Go, then. But do not linger."

She looks over at Bethany and then goes over to Carver's side. She doesn't look at Mother; she can't.

She steps aside for Bethany first, who bends down by her twin's side. Devyn closes her eyes and listens to the low, vague sound of her sister murmuring. She catches a sob.

Then, after what feels like an eternity, her sister rises and she kneels by Carver's side.

She touches his cheek - still warmed by the flames and the high-set sun - and she isn't crying. She realizes with a jolt that she can't cry. What is wrong with her?

"I'm sorry," she whispers, "I love you, I'm sorry, I-" there's so much she wants, wanted to say to him, this isn't-

No. She can't break. Not here.

She feels Bethany by her side, and she pushes herself back up on her knees. She feels the agony all over her body and not just from her wounds.

She looks down at her baby brother one last time and then walks away. From Lothering, from her brother, from her old life.

—

Mother cries on the ship, late at night. The first night, it's agony as Devyn pretends not to hear.

Mother won't look at her, and when she'd tried to touch her on the way to Gwaren, she'd brushed her off. She hasn't spoken a word to her. Only to Beth.

She doesn't know what to do with her mother's grief, and worse still, even if she did, her mother wouldn't let her.

_You fucking, bloody, useless coward._

The second night Bethany's hand snakes out to clutch hers and her grip is so tight it nearly hurts, but she grabs it back until they both lose the blood circulation in their fingers. Beth has crusted tears on her face the next morning. She must have cried silently through the night.

Devyn still can't cry.

(She’d cried when Father died, ugly and private. She’d been so angry that her cries had sounded like half-growls, like some kind of feral animal. This is not anything like this. This is silence and emptiness.)

The third night it's Aveline who rises and sits by Leandra's side, her face stoic, as she gathers her into her arms. Devyn looks at this templar's wife, this woman warrior; she is so much braver than Devyn herself, even with her husband dead by her own blade.

A week ago she was a soldier with a family, a home and a town of her own. Now she's nothing. Brotherless, fatherless and adrift.

She's paralyzed; not by the fear of death nor the fear of being turned away at Kirkwall's gates. It's the fear that came to her after Father died, only amplified ten times over. The fear that loss always precedes loss, until you are dead yourself. The fear that clenches around her heart tightly, a fist of cold - that death comes for everyone, and that it will come for her _last_.

—

They're rocked by constant storms - and they have nothing but the clothes on their backs. For weeks, they all walk around, reeking of sweat, dried rain, blood and desperation.

Every time Devyn draws a breath she wants to vomit, but they never get enough to eat or drink so she doesn’t. Some people’s vomit has congealed in the corner of the hull, and she tries not to look at it. They all piss and shit in buckets carried upwards to the deck, and sometimes it falls over onto the floor and the people still below.  


She tries to grin and bear it, regardless, telling stories come dinnertime and making faces at the children. But she scrapes the days passing on the wooden walls with a nail that had fallen through the floorboards, keeps track. _Kirkwall, Kirkwall, Kirkwall_ , she thinks. _Come on, come on, come on._

—

She's the first to wake. The sun hitting her face through the bars. They don't let them out of the brig, but she can already tell by the shouting between the sailors above.

They have arrived at Kirkwall, the city of chains.

She grips her fist. Their last chance.

\--

The sheer immensity of the mass exodus of people on the docks stuns her. Fereldans from all walks of life are here, elf to noble - here for a new life, just like them.

\--

Uncle Gamlen immediately strikes her as an ass. As soon as he's opened his mouth, he confirms it. She wants to joke with Bethany about him, but the words die in her throat when she looks at her sister filled with desperation and worry. They've been here for four days and it's starting to show.

They have to get in, no matter the cost.

Meeran's leer practically makes the choice easy.

—

One moment, she's a piss-poor refugee sleeping in dark corners; next, she's shaking down a merchant for an elven smuggler with her sister. She sizes him up and decides that Aveline, with all her warrior's might, could help here.

"Care to step in here?"

"Only because this toad deserves it."

Aveline is almost as quick as her with the draw; the throat of the poor bastard had no chance.

"You have a choice. Pay, or I beat it out of you and your men."

Devyn whispers to Beth, her humor finally found as he scurries off like a dog with its tail between its legs, "Alright, I've officially decided. I _like_ her."

Beth looks surprised for a moment. Then a glorious, amused spark lights her eyes for a moment as she whispers back, “Me too.”

\--

Gamlen goes off to make the necessary arrangements. Devyn lets out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

Then it's just them – three women standing before a new life lain before them in debt and hardship. But still a life.

"If only Carver were here."

"And Wesley."

She pulls back her lips in a facsimile of a smile. ( _Have to be strong. Have to be good enough, this time-)  
_

"C'mon. Let's see what this city has to offer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAUTION: RANTING AND GENERAL FANDOM BASHING
> 
> It always frustrates me that everyone forgets that nonmage f!Hawke was in the army? Everyone writes about f!Hawke growing up in Lothering, on a farm etc., and some really good ones write about Hawke under Meeran's employ and how that affects them later on. But no one I've read so far has written about f!Hawke as an ex-soldier. Is it because fandom as a whole avoids writing female veterans? I know I'm making some generalizations, but c'mon, people. I would think someone would think more about their time in the army rather than that one thing they did as a kid or teenager one time. There were more army bits in here, but they didn't make the cut; you'll likely see some more of it later. 
> 
> Just - this story is so important. An immigrant female veteran. Everyone also forgets that Hawke is an immigrant, and before she was the Champion, she was just another dirty Fereldan refugee. If you're an immigrant or you know an immigrant, you know how shitty it can be. Merrill is an immigrant, as is Fenris, Isabela, Anders and Aveline. One could argue Varric is the only one who isn't. No one writes about that in their fic though! Who gives a shit about immigrants or refugees! I'm definitely not pissed about this! Why am I using so many exclamation points! Plus, the game even references this a lot. Merrill's storyline especially. Also, you get letters over the years from people back home. Fenris asks you about Lothering. It's not a plot point Dragon Age II forgets about. 
> 
> HMM. It's almost like lots of people could care less about writing stories from a non-white perspective, let alone a non-American's, even though all of Thedas is inspired by so many different countries and religions. _What a coincidence._
> 
> Okay, rant over.
> 
> If you've made it this far, I promise you, things will speed up a bit more soon. We're getting closer to meeting (more of) the gang! Huzzah!


	3. Prologue Pt. 3: Hawke

"Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me..."

The slightest of dawn peeks over the horizon, dying the sky fiery orange and lilac. The first day of their many in Kirkwall under Athenril. Next to her, Bethany is singing. Devyn closes her eyes and listens to the gathered mass of voices. At this hour, there is no instrumental accompaniment. Only them and their voices.

Her body aches from sleeping on the ground for weeks.

 _At least Gamlen’s floor is better than the bloody ship_ , she thinks.

The hymn is a common one, but the words are powerful as they ever were; their voices reach a crescendo and the multitude, for one singular moment, holds the morning, holds all the sun in song.

The song comes to an end and she opens her eyes. She is not devout, but even she can feel the almost-tangible simmer of faith set in this place, the solemnity after sacred words lingering in the air even as everyone disperses. At the foot of Andraste she can see Sisters and Brothers still doing their dedications.

Reluctantly, she touches Bethany's shoulder. Her eyes are still closed.

"Sister," she says gently. "It's time."

Bethany nods.

They walk out of the Chantry back to Gamlen's house, eyed by some of the nobles and priests with suspicion in their poor clothing. She tries not to spit in their high-and-mighty faces.

They emerge from the house armed and go to the Hightown Market to find Athenril and get their first job.

Devyn thinks she hears Bethany mutter, "Maker forgive me," as they approach.

—

**3 MONTHS LATER**

"Fereldan bitch."

"Fereldan bitch!"

"You Fereldan whore."

"You Maker-forsaken Fereldan trash-"

"Fereldan shit-"

"Doglord darkskin bitch-"

"Fereldan bitch-"

"Fereldan shitskin-"

"Mudfaced bitch-"

Devyn rounds her shoulder, testing the joint. She'd swung too hard, this time at a crazed ex-templar. Her dagger had intersected neatly into the socket of his eye. She's stripped down to her leathers in Elegant's basement in Lowtown. Bethany's healing Elegant to her left as they sit on crates of the hungriest drug in Kirkwall (watered down, but still).

"D'you think they'll ever expand their invective horizons? How often can you can hear the word bitch before it begins to sound like a normal greeting?" She mutters to herself.

"Six months," a voice comes from the stairwell. Devyn has a weapon drawn and pointed before the figure takes their next step, until she realizes it's Athenril with her flaming red hair and slim frame. Athenril looks at her with a raised eyebrow until Devyn lowers her dagger with a disgruntled expression.

"I suppose that's the danger of being a woman and a criminal in Thedas," Devyn replies as her unease bleeds from her face. Athenril smirks.

"And Fereldan," she replies.

Devyn smacks her forehead, instantly regretting the movement as her arm is shot through with whiplash. "Of course! How could I forget?"

"You've a sharper mouth than all the other refugees, Hawke," Athenril says, striding over and inspecting an open crate with a discerning eye. "I have to say, it's almost refreshing."

Devyn changes looks with Bethany. Elegant is watching Athenril without reservation; Bethany removes her hands from her arm, healed to the best of her ability.

"You flatter me," Devyn says, after a terse beat.

"Don't go thanking me yet," Athenril says, straightening her back. "I've decided you and your sister here are better suited to...our more ambitious operations now."

"Let me guess. By more ambitious, you mean more coin?"

"And she catches on quick, too. How _are_ you related to Gamlen?"

"I'm told we have similar jaw lines," Devyn replies. Bethany shoots her a glare.

Athenril ignores the last comment and hands her a piece of paper before walking off. "That address, tomorrow. I expect you to be prompt."

—

At dawn, it seems like a routine job. Until she realizes that Athenril has sent her into a warehouse of ex-Coterie vets, all armed to the teeth.

An army of humans and dwarves surround them. 

"Hello, little sharper," the leader, a dwarf, says, showing all his teeth. "Come to play?"

Impossible-seeming odds. They've all got Orzammar forged weapons and armor. Tomwise is good enough with a bow, Elegant's sword is an extension of her arm and Bethany is an exceptional mage, but they don't stand a chance...

She laughs, adrenaline coating her lips, seeping into her skin like a mind-addling toxin wiping away any sort of rational thought. She should be ashamed of this bloodlust, but all she is suddenly egregiously _ravenous_ for the only thing that makes sense. The sound of weapons clashing, flesh cleaving, people giving under the edges she sharpens. The worry she has for Bethany is in the background, dulling the screaming paean of her looping mania, but she grins regardless.

She twirls her daggers as some of the smug expressions of their audience disappear, to be replaced with wariness. An appetizer.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen!" She crows. The dwarf in the front narrows his eyes. "Let's make this quick, shall we?"

—

She finds Athenril at the arranged meeting spot before the noon cracks, right outside Kirkwall. Her armor is almost completely saturated with blood. Athenril's ever-constant expression of neutrality slips into shock when she sees her. Devyn's staggering, near-limping to reach her, Bethany supporting her on her shoulder.

Tomwise passes her the pure lyrium shipment with no comment, his own face scratched.

The red-haired elf stares at Hawke.

She smiles, showing Athenril blood-spattered teeth.

"Next?"

—

Not a lot of the people they meet call her Fereldan bitch after that.

—

She leaves and she kills. She doesn't tell Bethany about the deal she has with Athenril about taking on more shifts so that Bethany can sleep. She doesn't tell Bethany about the gutters she's lain in. She doesn't tell Bethany about the guilt that gnaws at her, the way she imagines her old comrades would think of her if they saw her like this. She doesn't tell Bethany a lot of things, nowadays, and it all goes into her journal.

—

After a few more gruelling months, Athenril lets her and Bethany take it easier. Bethany is thrilled; she drags Devyn to Chantry services, when Leandra is too...indisposed...to accompany her.

The first time, she demurs from going inside until Bethany says, "Alright, then at least wait for me," and goes inside. Devyn’s left waiting on the steps.

She sighs. But it's the early morning, the city streets scrubbed new under rain and if she closes her eyes and listens she is elsewhere. She is back in Lothering playing in the streets as a child, listening to the Chant of Light being sung as she kicks up red dust. Even if she does not believe - it's nice.

She tries to ignore the clanking of templar armor passing her by.

—

Eventually, on a Sunday morning, Leandra comes with them for one of the services. Devyn, encouraged, goes inside for the first time. 

It’s after the sermon by one of the Sisters that she notices Bethany gazing intently at someone.

She singsongs under her breath, “You’re staring, Bethany.”

“I- oh- what? Sorry, Sister, what?” Bethany says, snapping out of her daze. She’s staring at one of the Chantry men - young but older than her, possibly in his early thirties. Devyn surveys his tan skin, red slick hair and muscled, lean frame evident even under the robes. Not her type, she thinks, but oh, _Bethany’s_ , alright.

She looks at her sister with amusement. “Shall I go over and say hello? Ask his name? Maybe see if he’s taken any vows?”

Bethany smacks her on the arm, hissing furiously as Leandra starts forward, “Don’t you _dare!_ ”

She laughs.

Tonight they’ll cut down men or smuggle in foodstuffs from Orlais, or both. Yet, in the morning, here they are: accompanying their mother and singing the Chant, then eying some poor man. None of it makes sense.

She thinks all this in a blink. Then she looks over at him only to see him looking directly at them. His blue eyes are brilliant and cutting in the morning light and she imagines she sees a hint of amusement.

“Oh, Void,” she whispers, turning away to look at Bethany. “Quickly! I think he noticed us.”

They speed away with badly smothered giggles, arms linked. The disapproving looks of some of the Sisters just makes it funnier.

Devyn doesn’t believe in the Maker. But she does thank him for things like this; the things she doesn’t deserve.

\--

After that, she goes to the Chantry at strange times when she knows Leandra and Bethany won’t be around. She doesn’t know how to explain the draw; she is no Andrastian like Bethany, but it is a refuge. The Chantry is vowed to turn away no one. Appealing in itself when all the places she knows are cutpurse dens.

She wears the only dress she owns, a white modest thing with long sleeves and lace at the hems, always feeling like a fool. The lack of armor makes her feel naked and feather-light. She moves too fast, too quick, too abrupt, feeling like a fake.

 _Some graceful rogue I am_ , she thinks, looking up at Andraste then higher, at the Chantry's stained glass windows. _You probably think this is kind of funny from up there, Carver. I hope you do. Someone should be laughing in this situation._

She doesn't go to the Chantry to repent or pray for her sins or even the lives of her victims. She goes there to sing and to forget, even briefly, that she is what she is. A honed blade.

She does not pray.

_If you exist, forgive Bethany. But do not forgive me._

\--

Her life is a carefully knit pattern; smuggle, go to the Chantry, sleep, mediate between her mother and Gamlen, check on Aveline (give Aveline's tails the slip) and repeat.

Her moments of rest are the ones she gets in the Chantry. She mostly avoids the halls, now, and goes out to the garden. It is carefully maintained, with trellises of creeping ivy and little shadows and benches where she can sit and breathe. So much of Kirkwall feels...oppressive, as if the city is hung in the shade of something terrible. Here is some light.

Here she talks to Carver. It’s a sign of madness, she knows, mumbling to dead people. But he had no grave, and at least here she’s guaranteed some semblance of privacy. After telling him about her day, she tells him about Bethany. It’s a late sunny afternoon and almost lazily she rambles, forgetting herself. She closes her eyes and imagines, for a moment, that her little crazy brother is here, in the air, in the birds, in the rustling of the trees.

\--

The majority of her life, though, is not that of a lay sister. For a second, she wishes that she was that lucky. More often than not, she doesn't find herself waking up in Gamlen's house in Lowtown, but in one of Athenril's hideouts scattered across the city. Elegant is sometimes there and so is Tomwise and Worthy, the only people she ever works with. Sometimes there'll be others, but they're nameless and blurry-faced to her. 6 months in, all the warehouses and dungeons they run in start to look the same. She wonders to herself when she stopped caring about anything except for her family and the direction of her daggers.

One morning, however, she wakes up in Athenril's bed.

_Well._

_That's new._

\--

One day Hawke finds something while Athenril's still asleep.

The morning after, one of the last mornings of her servitude, she slips off the bed and puts on her armor earlier than usual.

"Leaving so soon, Hawke?" Athenril says. She curls up on the bed. She isn't smiling. The night before they'd been drinking and celebrating. Devyn had even gotten her to laugh.

But now the day is cold on her back and the sun is high, and Beth is wondering where she is as she always does.

"Yeah. Sorry to skip out," Devyn replies shortly.

"You should know, Hawke-" Athenril doesn't falter, but she comes as close to it as she's ever seen her. Devyn turns around to look at her. "The Coterie will come after you eventually. They'll put the blood around your ears."

She looks at her. Athenril's face is expectant. Devyn eventually says, "Yes?"

"You have brass balls, talking like that," Athenril says. "You're not afraid of them at all, are you?"

"Andraste's mercy, I'm not mad-touched," she says, "Of course I'm wary of the Coterie. But-"

"The Coterie are wary of _you_ ," Athenril finishes. "Aren't they? I wonder why that is?"

Devyn shrugs; shrugs as if she hasn't strung up men from here to the Storm Coast.

"Besides, that's not your problem anymore, is it?" Devyn says. Athenril looks at her coolly.

"Are you insinuating something, Hawke?"

"You were going to sell me to them in exchange for them leaving you alone after I left," she said. "You were going to tell them about Bethany."

Athenril pales several shades and shifts almost insubstantially. Devyn can tell she has a weapon hidden in her bed.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you," Devyn says, her voice sounding far away and eerie. She doesn't know who's talking anymore. "But you know what? You're not going to sell me, 'Ril, because I have all your invoices. You remember that friend I have, the one in the guard?"

"You wouldn't," Athenril says, her voice finally edging on panicky. "You wouldn't risk your sister-"

Devyn nearly backtracks. It's a suicide play. But she pushes on anyway. "Bethany and I have made our peace. Tell me, have you made yours?"

Athenril’s silence is enough answer that she makes her way out, already having won. She’s willing to bet her life, but Athenril’s never been willing to bet hers.

Athenril has one parting shot as Devyn backs away. “What are you, Hawke? An Orlesian bard in disguise? You’re certainly no Fereldan soldier, no matter how many times you pray to the Maker you still were,” she spits. Devyn freezes. Athenril wouldn’t attack the Chantry in a million years – no.

She replies shakily, “I’ll finish my last job and we’ll be done. Goodbye, Athenril.” She opens the door.

“ _Devyn-_ ”

She slams the door closed.

\--

In the span of several weeks after leaving Athenril, Elegant gets hitched, she befriends a dwarven merchant prince and an ex-Grey Warden she can’t decide is crazy, sweet or misguided. Added with the fact that her uncle usurped her mother's inheritance, she's in dire need of a drink. She'll save money another day, she thinks, so she heads over to the Hanged Man. On the way, she meets Varric.

“Hawke! Good to see you.”

She smiles despite herself. He’s a charmer, for sure, though word is he’s a better liar than all of Hightown put together. Something tells her he’s one of the good ones, though. “You too, Tethras. Headed back to the Hanged Man?”

“Undoubtedly. And you?”

She nods.

“Need a drink, do you?”

She nods again, this time more fervently. He rubs his neck. “Yeah, after all that family mess, I wouldn’t blame you. C’mon. First round’s on me.”

\--

The Hanged Man is as filthy as ever, she thinks absentmindedly, as she and Varric step through the threshold. Then she spots a dark-skinned woman by the bar, dressed in nothing but a long tunic, smalls and wicked high boots. She's surrounded by several men. She reaches for her daggers, until the woman takes them out in under a minute.

Her draw is so fast Devyn nearly doesn’t see it. She presses the tip to the ginger’s throat. Her voice is a purr, “Tell me Lucky, is this worth dying for?”

They scamper off like cowardly curs. She settles back at her spot on the bar as if she’d just gotten up to use the privy, with a satisfied smile and a throaty chuckle. “That’s what I thought.”

Devyn's hand shoots out to grip Varric’s shoulder lightly. “ _Maker_ ,” she breathes. “I think I’m in love.”

“ _Easy_ there, Hawke,” he says, though his voice has a hint of the same respect. “Andraste’s tits, I think I can’t blame you."

They approach the bar and the woman turns around and gives her a friendly smile. “You’re new around here, aren’t you? Welcome, and keep your wits about you. You’re nothing but tits and arse to the men in this place, and they won’t hesitate to grab at both.”

Devyn shrugs, though her mouth quirks up at the warning. “I’m sure they’ll be grabbing something at the end of the night, though whether it’s their balls as they’re running away is up to them.”

The woman gives a good laugh at that and grins. “Oo, I _like_ you. I’m Isabela – previously Captain Isabela – sadly without the ship, the title rings a bit hollow.” She examines her face more closely. “You’re Fereldan, aren’t you? You have that look about you. I was in Denerim not too long ago. I even _met_ the Hero of Ferelden, if you know what I mean. You know – you might be just what I’m looking for...”


	4. Bait and Switch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "..." indicates in-game dialogue that's been cut. I didn't want to make things too draggy.

She's standing in the Chantry with blood on her gauntlets again. The carpet and walls of the holy place are going to need a thorough cleaning. There's that ringing in her ears that always happens when a spellbinder's tried to disorient her. Cherry on top of the nug cake, Isabela's disappeared after having flirted with her post-battle. She really, really hopes this won't become a pattern. (The flirting after certain danger or killing people in the Chantry, she can't tell.)

"Why do _I_ get all the crazy?" she mutters to herself.

"Don't grumble, Hawke," Varric says, stowing his crossbow. "You liked her."

She gives a one-shouldered shrug, Aveline shaking her head in the background. "True."

Bethany addresses her. "C'mon, Sister, we should get home. I think Gamlen said you had a letter."

"Wonder what that's about?"

—

He is headed towards Kirkwall in another ship when he realizes what the slavers have taken from him. The weight of the pendant in his pouch, though insignificant, is non-existent. He tries to recall every moment of his last altercation with the forsaken blighters. He stares at the empty pouch with growing horror.

Their gift is gone.

He is close to tearing a hole in the ship's brig. _Stupid. Stupid. Foolish._ He kept a sentimental token and now they have leverage, now he has a weak spot they can exploit. _Venhedis. No. No._ They cannot hurt him again. Not for this. He will not fall prey to them again - never again. He would rather slit his own throat first.

_Forget it. Forget them. They are dead. A trivial trinket is not worth risking your life for. You must keep moving._

_(See? You are a free man.)_

He shuts his eyes tight.

He wrestles with his demons all night until they pull into harbor. By then, he has made his choice.

He will turn and face the tiger; and it will either be the beast that falls or him. Either way he is tired of waiting, and he owes-

He owes them this, at least.

—

The sunlight is dizzying. The sensation is familiar; he has been rocked to sleep by too many ships in his journey here. The sun that hits him is always the same and disorienting no matter how many times he does it.

The docks are filthy, each board sopped with saltwater and blood. Even worse, the scent of fish is permeating the air and wafting out of every crevice, making his nose wrinkle. He's always hated the smell. He shakes off his distaste and surveys the area.

There are a few dock wenches around, along with sailors and shifty-looking dwarves who are presumably merchants.

He takes his chances with the dwarves.

—

He's up to his knees in blood when he hears the man shout. "Lieutenant! I want everyone in the clearing, now!"

His focus is sharp, every fiber of his being slicked with the rush of battle, his muscles coiled. He moves against the whistle of wind. He is purpose. He is a sword dividing the night. The lyrium pounds its song through his ears, and even as he hates it it is pure exhilaration. He punctuates the end of the Lieutenant's life with his gauntlets and the wretch gurgles. He pushes him on his feet around the corner and follows.

"Your men are dead, and your trap has failed," he says, approaching the woman in the front of the clearing, ignoring the bastard to his right. He'll be dead soon enough. "I suggest running back to your master while you can."

"You're going nowhere, slave-"

His vision goes white. " _I am not a slave._ "

His heart is gone in two beats. He turns calmly around to face the woman, again, who looks unusually composed faced with his appearance. "I apologize..."

She's shorter than him, rare for a human. Her tawny brown skin is almost as dark as his own. She's wearing good gear for a Fereldan fugitive, though he notes some places where it is no longer serviceable. Her eyes are normal and brown - what is most notable about her is the red smear across her nose, like a blood stain. It looks too deliberate to have been obtained from the mess and heat of battle. He assumes it is an intimidation tactic, a daring if unwise one - most rogues and thieves he knows draw little attention to themselves. She has a scar down her jawline, extending into her cheek and neck. Behind her stands a beautiful girl who resembles her but for her hair, a woman with the plate of a guard and a dwarf with an impressive crossbow. An interesting group.

"You know, Anso's job did seem too easy." She says with a cavalier smile, snapping him out of his introspection. He raises an eyebrow at that and examines them more closely. Her team appears quite unscathed, and even as she's breathing hard with exertion, she's standing and quipping. Anso definitely chose well.

She asks him questions. Then she surprises him. She says, "If they were trying to recapture you, I'm glad I helped, then."

He dips his head at that, astonished, but continues, "...if I may ask, what was in the chest? The one they were kept in the house?"

Her answer is as he expects, and he feels something extinguish in his chest, the one thing he was taught not to cultivate; hope. He tosses it away bitterly, and focuses on his new mission - vengeance. When he asks her to help him once more, again to his surprise, she accepts.

—-

He is walking alongside them when the words escape his mouth before he can stop them. “You are shorter than I expected.”

She immediately whirls around and stares at him with an appalled expression. The hairy dwarf chuckles behind him. “Oh, you did not just say that. This is going to be good.”

“Excuse me?” She asks, her face a perfect mask of disbelief. He feels an inexplicable flare of panic at offending her and immediately backpedals.

“That was not ill meant, merely-”

She breaks out laughing. "Oh, Maker. I'm sorry. I was jesting."

He mutters under his breath in Arcanum. A comedian. _Vishante kaffas._

“You have to give him credit for his balls at least, Hawke,” The dwarf says. “I mean, his honesty’s a death wish, but he’ll say it to your face. You’re short enough that I only get slight neck ache talking to you instead of a hernia.”

“You are the _worst_ ,” she declares, even as the dwarf gives her an impetuous smile. Fenris watches the easy exchange, bemused. He looks over at the girl next to her, presumably her sister, holding in a giggle. The fiery-haired guardsman has her arms crossed and her expression belongs to one eternally beleaguered with nonsense. He can already tell she is of the same cloth as Qunari Tamassrans; admirably strong, steadfast and forever enduring things beneath her.

Then their attention snaps back to him when Hawke says to Fenris, “Well; yes, I’m short. If you’d like to get in any jokes, now's the time.”

He blinks once at her abrasiveness before replying, “We should move on.”

She shrugs and they continue. For some reason he feels a compulsion to turn back and look at her, but there is always the mission, always the fury; he walks on.

—-

Entering Danarius' mansion with her at his side makes the experience no less disconcerting. The floors feel streaked with blood magic, like mud sticking to the sides of his armor. The feeling is so thick to the point where he can nearly see it painted onto the walls and taste it at the back of his throat. The bile threatens to spill out and he feels the venom seep into his skin, pulling at his lyrium veins and he grits his teeth. This blasted, cursed, infernal _stain_ of magic. He has to end this. He _will_ end this. It stops tonight.

—-

Her sister is a _mage_. Something about it makes his brain light afire, prickling the hairs at the back of his neck, though some of it might just be the dark magic that surrounds the house. He feels the burn of betrayal, of trusting too easily with a snake at his back, coupled with the disappointment of not finding Danarius. He hears the clatter of the door as they emerge. He addresses Hawke swiftly, intent to inform her of her stupidity.

"...harbor a viper in your midst. It will turn on you and strike when you least expect. That is in its nature."

"Excuse me?" She says, her anger slipping through, a crack in her comedic veneer. "She just helped _save_ your sorry skin-"

"Sister," The mage says, stepping forward to place a hand at her shoulder. Fenris raises his eyebrows to see the mage restraining her sister - unbelievable control for an apostate. She then looks between the both of them quickly, the fear in her eyes indecipherable. Still, he makes his views known, irritated at the interruption.

"I'm not blind. I know magic has its uses, and undoubtedly there are mages with good intentions, however...their power is a curse to inflict upon others."

"No one's stopping you from moving on, you know." The mage snipes. Admonished, he recalls that they did just save him twice over.

"I imagine I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth. I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt. Here is all the coin I have, as promised. Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly render it."

The look she gives him after tucking the coin pouch in her armor is sharp enough to hang meat from - then it is gone. She asks him a few questions, smart enough to want more information on his situation. The look she gave him earlier is still fresh on his mind throughout; he wonders if she is about to turn on him until she says, "Give me a minute to...confer...with my...companions."

He is in no hurry. He nods. She walks off a certain distance with her three companions. He wonders who he's chosen to ally himself with.

—

She turns to face Bethany, Aveline and Varric, the aching of her muscles from fighting demons adding to her ire as she does. 

" _Confer_ with my _companions_? Did you take a hit to your head, Hawke?" Varric quips, "I've never heard you so stiff."

"Believe me, it was an effort," she grits out, her shoulders set as tense as a bowstring.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side, Hawke," he replies. "If you dislike him, why aren't you saying no?"

"It's not just me that's involved here. So, tell me what you think about this situation."

"Hawke," Aveline says, "I don't think it would be wise to decline his offer. I'm the only warrior you have and my duty as a guardsman means I'm not readily available. He seems proficient enough and you need - "

“How can I trust someone who treats my sister like that even after she saved his life?” She snaps, and immediately regrets it as Aveline's lips purse into a straight line.

“Or, you know, you could ask me,” Bethany says. Three heads turn to look at her and she doesn't shy away, only looks at Devyn with a strength that makes her proud.

Devyn asks slowly, “What do you think, Beth?”

She glances down and thumbs her staff. "Aveline has a point, but we could always find a warrior elsewhere. I'm not sure how much I like him."

Devyn smiles in relief and assurance, nodding, even though she's got the feeling she's missing something. Then Varric's face contorts into an expression of realization. "Varric? What is it?"

He says, her gut already sinking before the words register, "Uh, Hawke...if he hates mages that much, what’s to stop him from turning Sunshine in to the Templars if you cut him loose?"

Her face flips like a copper, expression turning dark. She's already calculating, but then she catches a hold of Bethany's frightened expression. She can't. She has to be better than that. She _is_ better than that to do that to someone with absolutely nothing. Even if she wasn't, Bethany would never let her.

She swears for a couple seconds, then turns and walks towards Fenris, her frustration completely wiped from her face and gait by the second step. "I'm planning an expedition I might need help with."

—

"Fair enough. Should you ever have need of me, I will be here. If Danarius wishes his mansion back, he is free to return and claim it. Beyond that, I am at your disposal." He bows, once. She stands there, a strange expression on her face as if she doesn't know how to respond to his manners.

A flare of irritation blooms up in his ribs. Perhaps she is shocked that an uncultured elven _slave_ such as him has any sort of manners whatsoever. But he quashes the notion quickly. Were she that person, she would not have helped him at all.

She then finally says, "Look - I want to clarify something." Her hands twitch as if she wants to move them, and he feels a twinge in his fingers in response. "You may already know this, but you don't owe me anything. I helped because I wanted to, not because I wanted the coin."

He looks at her. He keeps looking at her. He doesn't understand- he can't fathom her sincerity. He coughs and looks to the side. "Regardless of how you feel, I repay those I owe."

"A fine attitude," the red-haired guardswoman says, having come up next to her, "Hawke, let it go. Don't badger the man."

Hawke seemingly recovers and sends her a look of exasperated fondness. "You sword-wielding warriors and your codes of honor. Just let me be decent for once. Maker knows my reputation needs it." Hawke nudges her with her shoulder. The guardswoman gives her an irritated look at odds with the upward quirk of her mouth. 

"We should formally introduce ourselves." The guardswoman says to him, as he watches this display of affection, his chest stinging. They remind him of...

"I am Aveline."

"Varric Tethras," the beardless dwarf says, "Best rogue this side of the Free Marches. Excepting one." He winks at Hawke, who gives a half-huff half-laugh.

"My _name_ is Bethany Hawke," the mage addresses him with her arms crossed and her chin up. He admires her courage even as he is wary of her inevitable implosion. Hawke, next to Aveline, is conspicuously silent. He does not know why they all address her by her family name, but he does not ask.

"Thank you all for your help tonight," he says. "I do not wish to keep you from your business; you do not need to stand on formality."

Each of them acknowledge him as they pass by with a nod or a glance and he watches them leave before he heads inside. His ears can pick up on some of their conversation, as the chatty dwarf addresses Hawke.

"...Blondie's gonna absolutely love him, huh?"

He hears her groan as he swings the door open and enters his new dwelling. The blood magic still lingers in the air, and he sees the corpses congealed at the entrance. _A slaver's den, indeed,_ he thinks with disgust. All thoughts of his new ally leave him.

—

Bethany asks her softly, with a frown, "Sister? What was all that about, just now?"

Devyn sighs, pushes a hand through her hair and says, "He's definitely someone to keep an eye on but I don't want him to get the wrong idea. He used to be a slave, and what he said about Tevinter... We're not going to take advantage of anyone."

She meets Bethany's eyes then looks down. She thinks about the endless nights with Athenril and even then indentured servitude is nothing to Tevinter slavery. His own experience must be beyond imagining. She shakes off the disquiet and says lightly, "Maybe I should have charged him more, though. That's a huge mansion. Plus, that bed looked nice."

Aveline shoots her a look and opens her mouth to say, "Hawke, you don't have to -"

She waves her off. "I'll take rats and the floor over the Viscount's Keep any day, Aveline. It's fine."

"You are too proud, Hawke." Aveline shakes her head. Hawke laughs her off, as she always does. She heads home, trying not to think about whether she's just invited a traitor into their midst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism welcome! I don't have a beta, so seriously. 
> 
> Compliments are also welcome, because I thrive on approval.


	5. Fereldan Enough?

"We figured you for a Kirkwaller, sorry."

The words are like fingers in her brain, insidious, pawing around in her mind. It's easy enough to hear what was underneath;

_You're not one of us._

She launches herself up. There is no sun here, windows all boarded up by Gamlen. The dimness of the candle tells her Bethany's already awake. Her makeshift bed scrapes against the board, straw crunching. She rubs her back, then wipes at her face. She always checks for bugs on her face in the morning. The glories of sleeping in Lowtown.

She sniffs. She can smell the Fereldan stew they'd been cooking last night still marinating. Good old Fereldan turnip and barley stew.  If that doesn't bring back some of Ferelden she doesn't know what will. The stock she'd bartered from the Lowtown market, with her own coin - and it's strange to think of that, even now, after leaving Athenril, her own coin - and she'd gotten stale carrots waiting outside a pub at closing time. The garlic was from Mother. Even Gamlen had chipped in with an onion, grumbling about winnings at a card game, and _girl, you'd better cook it as well as I remember it._ Leandra had smiled and threatened to rap his knuckles with the wooden spoon. Devyn had leaned over the carrots she'd been chopping and hid a smile.

She wanders over to their makeshift kitchen and finds Bethany there, leaning over the pot. She watches her add fire to the flame.

"Morning, Sister. Smells good, doesn't it?" she says, and Devyn yawns as she tries to say yes.

"Mmf - yes." She says, rubbing her neck. The smell of the hearty stew is waking her up and she smiles lazily at her sister. In her mind, she's thinking already of the amount of gold they have, inching ever closer to the 50 sovereigns they need but never enough. She'll have to work more after this to compensate for the ingredient cost, but _Fereldan stew_. The money will keep. This is precious.

"Remember the first time you made it? You were so nervous, and you kept making Father go through each step again," Bethany reminds her.

"And _you_ and Carver insisted on stealing bites out of all the ingredients and giggling like ninnies," she retaliates. "Nibbling on the celery. Eating bits of the carrot. Trying to drink the barley."

Mother's voice cuts in and they turn around to face her. "If I recall, you tried that too, my dear. I remember-"

Mother falters, for a second, and Devyn doesn't want the specter of grief interrupting this, selfishly, foolishly, but she swallows and doesn't say a word.

"I remember Malcolm had kept some of the barley, put it in a cup, and you'd told him you spit in it after the first sip."

"And Father just spat it out all over himself, he'd been all wet and spluttering, and said he should have named you Devil," Bethany finishes. They all look at each other, the smell of home filling the air, and they laugh. It's been so long since Devyn's heard Mother laugh.

The laughter eventually tapers off. Mother's face has gone wistful. She goes towards them, holding out her arms, and they go to her. She tucks them into her chest, and Devyn's eyes warm, prickling with something.

"My girls," Mother whispers into their hair. "My girls."

—

That day she and Bethany stay at home and do chores, waiting for the stew to be just right. The first few hours are fine. However, she tenses more as the afternoon goes on, until Bethany sighs and says, "Sister. Would you please relax?"

The question jolts her. Right. She doesn't need to look out for any templars or worry that Athenril's messenger - a lithe elf boy - will come up at any time. Even knowing this, her muscles are taut as a wire. She can't stand still either, shiver in her skin a constant. Mother tells her, dear, maybe a walk would do you some good, which is code for you're making cleaning harder than usual.

Devyn gives up and leaves. Bethany stays, despite her cajoling. The flash of something in her eyes makes her want to ask why, but she's already being pushed out the door. She stands in the sharp sunlight, shielding her eyes, feeling oddly like Gamlen.

—

She walks to the Chantry. She's in her best clothes, a patched up pair of pants and a red tunic. The sisters and deacons outside eye her as she passes by, dismissive, or their faces moues of disgust. She feels like doing a cartwheel and flipping them off at the end of it. Usually, though, she's lucky; the Chantry usually kicks out loitering refugees. She assumes it's because of her Amell roots that they haven't.

She feels herself calm as she walks through the hall and sees the stained glass windows. She ignores the looks she's getting and walks with her chin held high. _Pride is a sin, Devyn._ She looks up at the statue. _I wonder how many of them wish I would go up in flame. Sorry, Andraste. That was probably blasphemy._

She learned her pride in the army. She'd been a poor recruit at first, jumping at shadows and unused to standing tall. Her squadmate had taken her by the shoulders after her first couple drills and said, "Look. You're a soldier now, love. It doesn't matter what you were before, what you're thinking of now, you are a soldier. When we march, we do it proud, we do it for Ferelden, we do it for our families. So square your shoulders and march like the Divine Herself commands you."

—

She goes to look at the books they keep above the pews. Bethany had told her the selection wasn't too bad. They used to read a lot together, before. Fairy tales, pirate adventures, history of far-flung places and urban legends. Stories of pirates, Grey Wardens, elves and princes.

The smell of candles burning overwhelms the area.

Here, midday, there are only a few people. She hears a man going on about somebody's legs and stifles the urge to laugh very loudly.

She's looking back at the leg-obsessed man and chuckling internally when she bumps into something hard.

"Oof," and she draws back immediately to access if it's any threat. She sees that she's nearly cheek to cheek with the red-haired man from the morning service instead. Her face flushes and she backpedals. Even if he's not her type, he's still handsome enough to fluster in close proximity. He looks, if anything, more amused than ever.

"I apologize, my lady," he says, his accent thick as coconut jam. _Oh Bethany is going to have an absolute fit if she ever hears him talk. He could melt butter with that voice,_ she thinks, and then realizes she hasn't said anything.

"I - ah, no apologies necessary," she says, "I was distracted. Forgive me, Brother...?"

"Vael, though I am no Brother," he says. She looks at him. He's still in the Chantry robes, hands folded. He looks like a Brother. He is young for one, though. Perhaps -

"I am training to be affirmed," he says, confirming it. "My name is Sebastian Vael. And you are?"

"Devyn Hawke," she replies. "You may have seen me around."

There's a mischievous gleam in his eye. "I may. You and your sister are not easily forgettable."

Her face eases into a grin. "I'm sure she'd be flattered. You don't have to include me, she's the pretty one... Affirmed, you say?"

He coughs awkwardly. She feels like such a demon, right now, flustering a good Chantry boy by implying designs on her sister, but it's too funny. "Aye."

She nearly reaches up to clap him on the back, but thinks better of it and apologizes. "Sorry. There's a reason you always see me chaperoned; I'm a menace to proper society."

He gazes at her, his eyes clouded with something until it clears. "It is no problem, serah. Are you looking for someone?"

"No, just...taking in the sight of the faithful. I was also browsing the Chantry's selection of books."

His eyes light. She has to hand it to this man; he either really believes, or he's an amazing actor. She feels envy, the arrow of it in her heart, straight, true and cursedly green. To have faith, a bed and a place to belong - he is so clearly a Marcher.

"I can recommend some reading, if I may - "

"No," she says. "No, it's alright. Thank you. Good day, messere."

"Andraste keep you," he replies smoothly, his hurt puppy dog expression lasting only a moment.

_Sorry, Vael._

—

It's nearly approaching dusk when she emerges from the Chantry - she'd gotten lost walking around, trying to avoid Sebastian Vael.

The streets are fuller, people trying to get home before dinner. It's Hightown, so no one is shouting "Filthy Fereldan!" at her like they do in Lowtown, but the stares she gets in her shabby clothes are noticeable. A shift of the head here, a down turn of the mouth. Ladies and men alike, sneering, all of them pale and well-dressed, muttering _mudskin dog lord_ under their breath. She hears a mocking laugh at her expense, and then another.

Grin and bear it, she grits her teeth, grin and bear. March like the Divine Herself commands you.

—

She finds herself passing by the mansion from the week before - Fenris, she remembers, his name is Fenris. She thinks of the lyrium veins on his skin and his fury. Of his harsh words to Bethany and how they'd taken him, anyway, because...

"Talk to him, Hawke," Aveline had said. "Perhaps this time he will be more amenable. He doesn't seem like he would rat out an apostate without due cause."

 _Right, because I should trust the judgment of someone who was married to a templar?_ She shakes away the ugly thought, inhales, and knocks.

His voice gruffly comes through the door. "Who's there?"

"It's me, Hawke."

There's the sound of several locks shifting. The door swings open. He's fully dressed in his armor, and she wonders if he sleeps in it, spikes and all. "Hawke."

"Fenris. May I come in?"

He nods and lets her through, and they pad up the stairs to his room together in silence. She braces herself for questions about Bethany, but they never come. She sits down on the chair - softer than her bed - and watches him pick up an already half-drunk bottle of wine. She doesn't drink, but she can tell by the look that it's good stuff. He catches her looking and says, "Aggregio Pavali. There are six bottles in the cellar. Danarius used to have me pour it for his guests. My appearance intimidated them, he said, which he enjoyed."

She winces internally. "You were his servant as well as his bodyguard, then?"

"I was his slave. I propped up the furniture, when he was so inclined."

She watches him take a long, hard pull of the bottle. He looks down at it for a moment after swallowing, then smashes it against the wall with a crashing of glass. "It's good to know I can still take pleasure in the small things."

She doesn't start, but she adjusts her perspective of him a little; rude to mages, dangerous and kind of funny. "You could have offered me a glass, you know."

He looks at her with an arched brow. "There's more, if you're really interested."

"That's fine. I wouldn't want you neglecting the walls."

He laughs, surprising her, then he hums, a thoughtful sound, and settles down on the bench next to her. "I've wanted to leave my past behind me - but it won't stay there. Tell me - have you never wanted to return to Ferelden?"

The question is a dull ache in her bones. The answer dries on the tip of her tongue.

The truth bubbles up in her chest. _I think of home too much, but there is nothing there for me, only ghosts. Lothering is razed into the ground. Yet sometimes I still dream. Fereldan cold rains and us kids scaring each other by imitating thunder, playing in corn fields and teasing girls about Ser Bryant. The wind streaming behind us as we ran with mabari. The creaking of the door every time Carver and I sneaked out to spar. I dream and think so much. Lothering is here, in me, it won't let go even when everyone has vanished and the town is ashes._

She clears her throat. She doesn't trust him, barely knows him - he doesn't need to know any of that. She settles for something easier. "I have no home left to return to."

"The Blight is over. You could rebuild what you lost. Do you truly not want to?"

"That's a - hard question to answer," she says slowly. "I'm not quite sure what to say. But my family is here."

She wonders about his interest. No one here gives a shit, spitting on the ground and telling her to shove off before she steals their jobs or spouses.

He is the first to have asked her.

"Putting down roots. I understand. Still, to have the option...must be gratifying." The longing in his voice is evident, and she sets aside the ache and thinks, _well, alright, my turn to pry._

"Do you intend to stay here, then?"

"...to Seheron if I could, but there is no life for me there."

"Is...that where you're from?"

His answer is curt. "So I've been told."

"So you've - " she stops and immediately rethinks saying anything. _Okay,_ she thinks, annoyed, _if you're not going to open up, fine._

"Are you going to track down your former master?"

"...Fight from a fortified position. I do not expect your help when that day comes, but I would not turn it aside."

"Haven't you sought help before?"

"...Never anyone of substance, until you. Danarius will not give up, however. I await his return."

"What if he does give up? What then?"

"Then I go to him. I will not live with a wolf at my back..."

She looks at him, his face so somber by the firelight, and forgets herself. "You know," she says, "you sound like you want to stick around."

"I could see myself staying - for the right reasons. I should thank you again for helping me with the hunters."

"Yes, you should," she says, grinning cheekily. This is easier.

"Had I known Anso would find me a woman so capable, I might have asked him to look sooner." He says, his voice a purr. She suddenly finds herself very confused. She realizes he is, while dangerous, hurt, odd-tempered and altogether incomprehensible, also attractive. He is also flirting with her.

_"...a viper in your midst. It will turn on you..."_

_"...what’s to stop him from turning Sunshine in to the Templars..."_

She shrugs, feigning disaffection. "It turned out well enough."

—

"That it did," he replies easily. He feels no disappointment in being rebuffed. He is what he is, and she is what she is; no amount of flattery will change that. "I should not keep you any longer."

He glances outside, then at her - night has fallen and she is not wearing armor or carrying arms, a blatant mistake on her part. He says, "You are not properly shielded. It is too dangerous for you to walk alone at night. I shall accompany you."

"That won't be necessary. I mean, thank you, but - "

"Are you certain?"

She looks at him. Her expression is inscrutable. "I'm certain."

—

_The Blight is over. You could rebuild what you lost. Do you truly not want to?_

She mulls the words, turns them over in her mind on her way home.

She thinks of all her friends, all the villagers they grew up with, scattered across all Thedas. It hurts; it may well always hurt, the knowledge that nothing will be the same. No, they can never go back. No, you can't get back what you lost -

She enters the house, smelling entirely of barley and turnip, and she smiles. A real grin, and she hears Blue's barking, Gamlen's grumbling and Mother's humming. She approaches the kitchen and sees her family - as patched up as they are - standing around the pot. They all turn.

Mother says, "There you are, darling; I hope you're ready to eat some real food."

Bethany smiles at her. Gamlen gives a bit of a huff and mutters 'took you long enough, brat'.

Days like this make almost everything worth it, even the days when no one will talk to each other and Mother barely says a word, and Gamlen stumbles in drunk and the city bleeds them dry. She smiles.

"Thanks for waiting," she says. "C'mon, I'm starving."

\- but you can try to make the best of what you have now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, next up: Isabela. 
> 
> god. love her so much. she hasn't appeared much in this fic and im so excited to write her stuff
> 
> some writer notes:   
> if ur an immigrant and u live with a family of immigrants and u don't do an equivalent of "fuck we need to cook something from home or we'll die" ur...probably staying in a country with better food?


	6. The Menace of Hightown Pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time - graduation, also ECCC '16, and Homestuck ending, and I am tuckered OUT. The next part should be up soon, though. I split it in half because I was kind of tired of tinkering with this half. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The gritty sand crunches in her teeth familiar and tasting too much like salt - she's hacking blood, crimson dotting the muddy gray shore.

"Fuck," she coughs. She spits out most of the sand and blood, then tongues her gums to see if she still has most of her teeth. _Yes. One victory_ , she thinks sourly, _for Captain Isabela_. Her head is moss, she's soaked to the marrow and she still feels the world sliding beneath her. A ship in a storm against a Qunari dreadnought - _Isabela, you absolute lunatic, what did you think your chances were?_

Laros' voice is in her head, _aw, Cap'n, we've bet on worse odds_ , and she winces. Half her men on the Siren's Call had no qualms following her into death.

She sees bodies, washed up on the coast. She then thinks about Robert and Jimmy and Slick floating underneath the water, pallid eyes bulging-

She heaves bile on the cresting shore. Its bloody day, gray as the men she lost and she wants a drink, a blow to the head and a bed; not necessarily in that order.

She doesn't feel tears prickling at her eyelids. A better woman would, but she decided never to be better at the age of fourteen.

She pushes herself up from her knees, peels off her leather boots and stands. She lets the cold water lap at her ankles for only a moment, then walks gingerly onto dry land. Her breeches are riding up, she's shivering, her Captain's hat is lost and the Tome of Whatever is probably fish food. She flicks her arms once, water flying around her. Her mouth is set. She throws her head back to look at the sky and gives the Maker her finger. A pirate's fair trade; He knows that's all He's been giving _her_ , lately.

She sighs. At least she still has her boots. She wiggles them back on and starts to walk. She knows where she is - the City of Chains in the distance welcoming her. _Chains_. Like she’s suddenly in one of those Chantry morality tales they used to tell children in Denerim and it’s all a big, stinking, terrible metaphor.

She addresses the sky tartly. “You’re a real shit too, anybody ever tell you that?”

—

Kirkwall isn't the most terrible place she's ever hung her hat on, she supposes. Nothing like Antiva or Rivain - but there's fun still in making friends at the Blooming Rose and casing Lowtown.

Then there’s Hightown. _Pffff_. All the little rich nobs walking around, their dirty secrets shoved in their pockets.

One night she steals two bottles of port by coaxing the Seneschal's guards away from a party, then grabbing them through a window. She'd scarpered off into the night chuckling. It had been _good_ port, too.

She's mooned the Viscount, stolen too many necklaces to count and the Ladies and Lords have declared her a menace. The Merchants' Guild wants their hats back and someone in Lowtown calls her a no-good, trouble-making temptress.

"You forgot _has great taste in boots_ ," Isabela'd added.

It’s not that bad, Kirkwall, if she ignores the Docks.

\--

A year passes. She spends what seems like half of it completely drunk and the other half killing people and snatching invoices before rigor mortis sets in. Lucky turns out, no surprise, to be an unhelpful ass.

After she’s done dealing with him, she sees a short woman approach. She’s cute, with just enough hair to grip during sex – a few scars on her face too, but she likes her women interesting. She's got this adorable expression on her face; a half-grin. Isabela knows she was just watching her little performance.

Isabela welcomes her and gives her some good advice. In return the woman makes her laugh - always a good sign, that. She's with Varric too, so she must be decent. So she asks her about Hayder. Maker knows she needs all the good backup she can get.

—

It goes nearly arse over tits, as it always does, but she's alive and her boots aren't too blood-stained. Another victory. Sort of.

She looks at Hawke's face, one of her eyebrows arched. Balls. She hates having to explain herself, but she does anyway, albeit leaving out some of the unnecessary details.

She grins, afterward, and tells her in short _you know where I'll be_ , and smirks at Hawke's starstruck expression.

—

The girl - Hawke - is trouble, just as she'd expected, and sometimes not the fun kind. But she's fun, anyway, and Isabela follows when she's not on her own excursions.

Teasing her sister is one of her favorite bits of it.

—

“…women are good for six.”

"Six? What six?"

" _Isabela!_ "

She cackles.

—

"Get her a night at the Blooming Rose. On me!"

She sees both Hawkes' expressions try to contort into something reasonable. It's more adorable than it has the right to be, really.

The bulky red-headed stiff - sorry, Captain Big Girl - scowls at her.

"That's, um, very generous."

"I'm a giver."

—

She doesn't meet the lanky, brooding elf for a while, until Hawke needs more hands on deck. He stalks behind Hawke in place of stockish Aveline. She does appreciate him a lot more - he's beautiful, brooding, dark and hostile. Mmm. That armor doesn't leave much to the imagination. She could lick the tattoos right off his skin. When he glows and shoves his hand through a man's chest, she wants to lick the blood off his jawline. Hawke gives her an odd look when Isabela starts talking to him, which quickly morphs into simultaneously amused and horrified.

—

"I suppose a pair of lyrium breasts tattooed onto my chest would make things better."

She hears Hawke snort in front of them, which she tries to pass off as a cough. Isabela watches Fenris - the side of his mouth twitches before settling back into a scowl. _Interesting._

She smiles and shrugs in response. "That's me. I'm a helper."

\--

Hawke addresses her later, walking her back to the Hanged Man and grinning in disbelief. 

" _Magical fisting?_ "

"Mm, should I have gone with glowy penetrating?"

Hawke barks out a laugh, a short _ha!_ loud and clear that makes the Lowtowners around them who'd been murmuring to each other and narrowing their eyes jump. She shakes her head in disbelief at Isabela, who curls her fingers around one of the coins in her necklace, smiling at her.

"Has anyone ever told you that you are probably insane?" 

"Not today, no."

"Well, you're insane. That man is the surliest person I've ever met and yet, two words from you and he's disoriented."

"I have that effect on people."

"You should walk around with a warning sign."

"I do, sweetness. That's why I don't wear pants."

\--

Merrill reminds her of Antivan pie – sticks-to-her-insides lovely and sweet. She's kind, and a little naïve in some ways but Isabela reads her control in her hands and the scars she has on her arms. They're almost as white as the day she was born. Isabela's seen enough blood mages to know discipline in the lines of her. Still, she worries about the girl; blood magic's crouching madness.

Anders and Fenris both condemn her and she smells fear, sharp and iron in the blood, on them. _Men_ sometimes.

Isabela looks at Merrill, young and bright and free. Merrill’s so easy to underestimate - then she'll turn around and sharpen her tongue when you least expect it. They're walking around in the Hightown Market and she's eying some new clothes when it happens. A pretty little thing, red hair almost as flaming as Big Girl's, walks near Merrill with her mouth open.

"A Dalish elf? Here?" _In Hightown?_

" _And'aran atish'an,_ sister." Merrill says with enough decorum to shame an Orlesian chevalier, lifting her chin to the sun. She's displaying her vallaslin for all Hightown to see. Isabela grins. _Attagirl._

"Oh, my."

\--

They're patrolling the Wounded Coast with Merrill and Anders when Hawke asks Isabela, "Do you miss Rivain?"

She’s feeling the wind cool the salt on her skin as she answers. Moments like this she misses it the most, the roar of the water and the endless horizon calling. "Oh, I do. In fits and bursts, you know. I miss the lack of Chantry morality, for one. Not to mention the people, in some ways. Everyone in Rivain is tattooed and pierced, according to how much money you've got. I once saw a woman completely covered in red text and her ears were all studs. None of it was dirty poetry, when we tried to sneak a peek past her neckline. Granted, I think she might have been related to the Queen of Antiva. Or was trying to look like she was."

Merrill says, "None of it? So what did it say?"

"Oh, I don't know. Some forbidden text, maybe. She was completely bald, too. I was trying to get past the robe when her handler came into the bar and half dragged her out."

Hawke coughs. Anders, to Merrill's left, huffs out an amused laugh. She shrugs. "Ooh- what I miss too is the food. Rivaini women knew how to make spiced meat - even after you'd washed your hands five times you'd still smell it on your fingers the next day."

"That sounds amazing," Hawke says.

"There was Llomeryn too. Remind me to drag Big Girl down there sometime when I have my ship back. She needs a good, hard screwing."

"But, Isabela, she isn't a contraption."

"Not the screw I meant, Kitten."

Hawke laughs and says to Merrill, "She means sex."

"Oh. Oh! Okay. Well, that makes more sense now."

Even Anders-Justice-oh-whatever chuckles. Isabela tosses her hair back and grins. Not a half-bad crew, this bunch. She'll whip 'em ship-shape soon enough.


End file.
